Over the Line
by Special Agent Snuggles
Summary: "Michael felt his lips tighten slightly, but he reigned himself in. He didn't want to hurt this person. He didn't want to give Anson the satisfaction of knowing that he'd used interrogation methods designed for hardened criminal masterminds and terrorists on a frightened civilian woman." How far over the line would you go, to save your friends' lives?


Author's Note: My first Burn Notice fanfic. This is set during season six, when Anson Fullerton is still around to plague Michael. Thanks for reading!

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**Over the Line**

* * *

"_Look_ at me, Miss No-Name." Michael squeezed her arms again, just a little, just enough to make her finally meet his eyes.

"Now, how about we start again?" Michael carefully masked the rising dread he felt, with a carefree smile. "You're telling me that my friends- and my _mother_- are going to die in a few hours from now, if I can't locate them, and that you know where they are, but won't _tell_ me." He snorted softly. "Now, that just sounds _crazy_, right? Let's say this _is_ true- that I need to find them, or they _die_. Why _wouldn't_ you tell me where they were?"

_This_ was how crazy Michael's day already was. He had walked up the stairs to the loft that morning, to be greeted by a mystery lady who had informed him that just about everybody he cared about on planet _Earth_ had been kidnapped while he was away on a mission for the CIA. And, the _best_ part was, they'd all be killed by two in the afternoon today, if he couldn't find them.

He'd proceeded- politely, given the circumstances- to escort said mystery lady over to the kitchen area, and had used his cell to call everyone. After leaving a message for his mother, Sam, and Jesse- Fiona's phone had rung from only feet away- Michael was starting to get a _little_ concerned.

The young woman in front of him wasn't a trained operative of any sort. In fact, she was likely a victim of blackmail. Nothing else could explain her behaviour, or her presence here at all. The kidnapper could've left a note; instead they'd left a trembling woman for him to find. Everything about her spoke of a normal civilian life. She was slender, and lacked the tell tale toning of a trained fighter. Her emotions were easy to read. She trembled slightly, avoided his eyes, and had violently flinched earlier, when he'd entered the already open front door of the loft with his gun drawn.

After informing him of his friends' plight, she had proceeded to tell him, once he'd escorted her over to the kitchen area and asked a few questions, that she knew where to locate his kidnapped friends and mother. But despite knowing where they were, she couldn't _tell_ him.

This..._wasn't_ good. This entire setup had one sadistic man's name written all over it. Ironically, Michael had been planning to stay in, and do research with Fiona on where Anson -the sadist in question - might be holed up, since he'd recently gone on the run from himself and the CIA. Sending this young woman here to tell Michael about his loved ones' imminent demise was exactly Anson's style; it was a final attempt at revenge, most likely.

Even after going on the run, Anson had still found time to try and have Fiona killed while she'd been a sitting target in prison, after all.

Now, here Michael was, staring down into the eyes of someone who was clearly afraid, trying to wait calmly for a reply to his question. She'd already refused to give him her name; it was unlikely she had anything else she'd be willing to share. Not when the message she was supposed to "deliver" was that Sam, Jesse, Fiona, and his _mother_ – Michael's jaw clenched involuntarily - were all going to die by two o'clock in the afternoon.

The woman's gaze flitted back and forth between his eyes in a panicked motion for several moments. Her expression looked trapped, and her breathing had picked up, his question clearly not helping her nerves.

"I can't. That's all I can tell you. I can't tell you where." She looked away, her voice a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Michael wasn't convinced this lady really knew anything, but he also couldn't take the chance that she truly _was_ his only lead- assuming that what she said about the others was true. It wasn't a good sign that no one was answering their phone.

So, he apologized...then tied up Miss Mystery Woman, leaving her gagged- albeit gently- and concealed in the back of the loft. Then, he left home at top speed, dialing everyone a second time as he drove. His first stop was his mother's house. She was gone, the car was there, the door was unlocked...and there was a note on the kitchen counter.

_Only one person can tell you where your mother and friends are, Michael._

A fist of cold dread gripped Michael's heart, as he recognized the writing, having memorized it only recently. Anson _was_ behind this. Michael took the note with him, after briefly calling out for Madeline through the house, already knowing it was a useless, emotionally driven gesture.

Next was Jesse's place, then Sam's. A similar note awaited him in both locations, left on the kind of notepaper any local food store or Walmart would supply. A quick search turned up his friends' cell phones, as well, which removed another potential tool for tracking them. Their cars were also present and accounted for.

Michael returned home, heart racing as he went. He was getting closer, now, he _knew_, to putting the fear of God- or Michael Westen, at least- into that mystery woman. She was starting to look like his only lead after all, and with a psycho like Anson leaving him notes, this was _anything_ but a joke. And it was already getting close to mid-day.

Once back home, Michael wasted no time. He started by cutting the zip tie holding the young woman's feet together, then pulled her up to a sitting position. He'd left her lying down, to keep her concealed from anyone entering the loft.

"Hey, I'm _sorry_ for leaving you in such an uncomfortable position." He smiled at her, waiting for the woman to catch his eyes. She looked vulnerable, and shaken, and couldn't speak, with the gag still in place. Michael made sure his eyes stayed trained on hers, his hands still on her shoulders, as he spoke one word.

"_Anson_."

Her flinch was obvious; it radiated down into his hands. Her eyes went briefly wide, then she closed them, a frown on her brow. Michael hated himself briefly, then, but mostly, he loathed Anson, as he stared hard at this person who supposedly held the key to his friends' survival.

"So, you _know_ him." Michael undid the gag along with the zip tie holding her hands together, then helped her to stand up completely. He gently led her back to the kitchen area, and gestured for her to sit again, which she did.

What she _didn't_ do was acknowledge his words, even if the emotional reaction, unguarded as it was- another clue that she wasn't any kind of trained operative- had already answered his question.

"Listen, I can help you. I know you probably don't like Anson any more than I do- and just to be clear, he's one of the people I hate most in the _world_. Knowing him, he probably has something hanging over your head. Family in danger, friends...something _important_." Michael reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder, to get her to finally look at him again. There were tears in the corners of her eyes. "_Tell_ me. I can help. I _promise_. It's obvious Anson is blackmailing you into doing this. I can see it in your eyes."

The tears brimmed over, silently running down her cheeks, but she stayed silent. Michael stared, thinking for a moment. Then he went for a pen and paper of his own. He scribbled something, and held it out for her to read.

_Are you bugged?_

She smiled sadly, and shook her head. Michael felt his lips tighten slightly, but he reigned himself in. He _didn't_ want to hurt this person. He _didn't_ want to give Anson the satisfaction of knowing that he'd used interrogation methods designed for hardened criminal masterminds and terrorists on a frightened civilian woman.

Instead, Michael retrieved her purse from where he'd placed it earlier, and carefully went through it. It was empty. No cell phone, no wallet, no personal identification...it was for show only, apparently. A second glance at her clothes and shoes confirmed they were likely brand new, probably worn for the first time today.

Michael pondered what, if anything else, he could use to track his friends. Both Jesse and Sam avoided living in places where hidden cameras watched their comings and goings, as did Michael himself. There weren't any cameras near enough to his mother's house to be helpful, either. Even if there _was_ footage out there somewhere he could use, he didn't have time to get access to it. No cell phones, no cars, no cameras...and of course, his friends also didn't make a habit of wearing GPS tracking devices on their person.

Michael stepped back, leaving his "guest" by the kitchen counter, and went to check the bed, the floor, all the entrances...searching for anything, any clue which could point him to something he might use. After a ten minute search, he came up empty.

The woman still sitting in the room with him, silently waiting, really _was_ his only lead. Despite the distance he'd given her as he'd searched, she hadn't tried to leave. It didn't make sense, not when she knew where things were likely to lead. At least, it didn't make sense, _until_ you threw Anson into the equation. Then it made too _much_ sense.

Michael didn't know what Anson was holding over this woman's head. Whatever it was...he couldn't let it stand between him and saving his friends and mother. He just prayed he could convince this woman of that _nicely_.

Michael pulled up another stool, sitting a few feet away from his silent companion, and tried to reason with her for nearly thirty minutes. He reassured her they were on the same side, explained that he was a _good_ guy. He described his mother; her cooking, her complaining, how she smoked _way_ too much. Michael talked about Sam and Jesse, and Fiona; about what good people they were. He wanted this woman to empathize with him, to feel compelled to help him.

When she still didn't offer any information, he didn't hesitate to beg, pleading to her that this was a matter of life and death, if her own words were to be believed.

In the end, nothing worked, and at twelve noon- only two hours until his friends and mother would supposedly get the axe- Michael finally changed tactics.

He put on an act, as he usually did in these situations- although his rising fear was easily funneled into and outward demonstration of growing frustration and anger. He came close to "losing it" a few times, walking back and forth at a frantic pace, finally raising his hand as if to strike her, then stopping himself just in time. He saw her head tilt back, to avoid the phantom blow. It confirmed that she believed his act; believed him capable of hitting her. But it wasn't enough. She was only closing up more.

Michael reigned himself in, as fury at this situation rose inside him. He didn't want to _beat_ this woman; he didn't want to play Anson's game! He wracked his brain furiously, knowing that time was short. Maybe she _wasn't_ willing to talk, _but_ he could _use_ the fact that she wasn't a trained operative against her, and in that way beat Anson at his own game.

Michael let out a deep sigh, and made a show of rubbing his temples. Then he got two glasses from the kitchen, filled them with water, and set one in front of his captive audience, sitting back down on his stool again. He apologized for losing his temper.

Then, he began a relaxed, albeit quick spoken, commentary on the city. He named off major landmarks, offering up his opinion on them, mentioned restaurants he enjoyed on the north-side, places he recommended to visit on the coast...and made sure to keep a nonchalant eye on her through it all. Maybe she'd learned her lesson, after he'd tricked her into revealing she knew Anson earlier. Or, maybe Anson himself had warned her about this interrogation method. Either way, she was avoiding the traps he set for her. She never participated in the one sided conversation, even when he directly asked her opinion on something. She carefully set her lips into a stoic, straight line, and kept her eyes to the floor. Tension radiated off her, despite his mild tone, despite every attempt he made to put her at ease, to get her to open up- and _slip_ up.

Whatever it was Anson held over her head...it had to be huge for her. Michael wouldn't be surprised if her own friends or family were at stake. But, it didn't _change_ the fact that Michael didn't have _time_ for this. It didn't change the fact that he couldn't _allow_ her silence to stand in the way of saving his friends and his mother.

Another thirty minutes later, and Michael's palms were starting to sweat. His heart was starting to race, and the panic was no longer completely under control. This was everyone, and everything on the line. This was his _mother_. This was his _girlfriend_.

He couldn't lose them. He _couldn't_.

"_Listen_. I'm going to start getting _mean_, if you don't tell me what I want to hear. Do you _understand_ me?" Michael stood suddenly, and stepped forward to grip the mystery woman's shoulders. She failed to acknowledge him, and the first burst of true fury at this situation finally escaped him.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!" Michael shook her twice, hard. When she finally looked up, only four words, quiet and terrified, came out.

"I can't tell you."

Feeling helpless, feeling furious, and hating himself all at once, Michael finally struck her. He backhanded her, whip-lashing her head to the side. His voice came out rough and low, and angry.

"Tell me that again." He jutted his chin out a little, in a sort of backwards nod, staring down at her. "Go _on_."

She was crying, but her mouth was set in a determined line, even while her eyes were wide and frightened. "Hit me if you need. But, I-I can't _tell_ you."

Michael did. He slapped her, hard, three times on the same cheek. She gasped, her lip splitting on the last strike, and the only thing keeping her seated on the stool was his own stony grip. She raised her arms, in an instinctive, yet feeble, gesture to hold him off. He grabbed both her wrists, and jerked her up, pressing her against the edge of the counter, trapping her against his body. He pulled her hands down behind her, bending her elbows, so that her back arched painfully into the edge of the counter behind her. She gasped, her chest heaving in panic, eyes closed as tears ran freely down her cheeks.

Michael glanced at the clock nearby. "According to _you_, my friends and my mother _die_ in one hour, and _nine minutes_. This is only going to get _worse_ if you don't tell me how to _change_ that."

When she didn't respond after several moments, he shook her slightly. "_Well_?"

"No." It was wobbly, and whispered. But there was steel there, too, a sense of something unbreakable. Or, at least, something which might not be broken in the time he had left.

Michael was going to have to beat her.

He pulled back, letting her go briefly, then caught her with a blow to that same abused cheek. She staggered from the punch, her entire body moving from the force of it, then landed roughly on the ground. The blow had shocked her badly enough that she hadn't even tried to cushion the fall.

Michael walked over to where she lay sprawled, noting that she'd skinned her elbow, then kicked her once in the solar plexus. She curled instinctively into a protective ball, as she struggled to breathe. There was nothing quite like those first few seconds after being struck in that way - all the air left your lungs, and they wouldn't expand to take in more air. The feeling was panic inducing, which at this point was exactly what Michael was going for.

Finally, the woman gasped in a long, frantic whoosh of air, and in the next exhale, let out a pain filled yell. It was involuntary; something else which brought home the fact that she wasn't _used_ to taking blows to the gut. Not that anyone ever got entirely used to it.

Michael knelt down next to her, and let his voice go soft. "Please, I don't want to do this. Just _tell_ me. Just whisper where they are, and I will help you up, and get you a nice drink and an ice pack, and then we'll deal with Anson, together. We'll make that bastard pay for everything he's done. I _promise_..."

She cried, letting out her panic and fear in heaving, involuntary sobs, then managed to pull herself back together enough to speak. Her voice was rough and full of emotion, but her answer, when it came, was unchanged.

"No."

Michael stood up, abruptly, and kicked her twice. Once in the solar plexus, harder than before, and once in her shin. This time, when she finally caught her breath again, a scream tore out of her, followed by another gasping breath, and another scream. After the third scream, she finally quieted down again, although her breathing was ragged and guttural. Given the force of his kick to her leg, her shin was probably fractured, and she wouldn't be able to walk on it for some time. She was truly suffering now. If she was going to break, it would likely be soon. It _had_ to be soon.

Somehow, unbelievably, she mustered a smile from where she lay, as Michael knelt down next to her, once again coaxing her to speak.

"You might- you m-might as well _kill_ me." She closed her eyes, hiding away the defiance, coupled with raw pain, that he saw there in her gaze.

That sense of triumph, that defiance, struck Michael strongly. He stared down at her slight form, her bloody, already swollen and bruising face, and thought hard. There were other kinds of threats, other things people feared. She fit the bill, the _mold_ of someone who might be effected better in a different way- and besides, he had no choice, and no _time!_ He had no ID, no connections, _nothing_ to go on! Not even a _name_.

All he _had_ was the threat of physical force, in one form or another.

Michael took a deep breath, once again hating himself, hating _this_...hating _Anson_...then he spoke, modulating his voice again. Making it soft, full of menace...and excitement.

"Maybe I'll _keep_ you...pretty lady." He let his hand wander, down her shoulder, down, to one of her breasts, where he let his thumb move back and forth, rubbing through the material of her dress. He squeezed, hard, then shoved her backward, so that she was sprawled on her back, instead of her side.

He let the panic he was feeling, the fury at this situation, along with something else; something on edge, something crazy, flow into his voice. "Maybe, if you won't _help_ me, I'll TIE YOU UP HERE, AND I'LL..."

He didn't hold back. He used foul language. He screamed at her, as he described the ugly, degrading things he would do to her. How he would _enjoy_ using her. How he hoped she was a virgin, because then it would all hurt her more. As he yelled, he straddled her, moving roughly, and leaned in close, to bring his face inches away from her own.

Then, Michael gave her another opening to speak. She was shell shocked. Up until now, maybe she'd thought that he was a good and decent person. That he was just doing this because he wanted to save his friends and family, like he'd said earlier.

Michael had to make her think otherwise. Maybe he _wasn't_ nice. Maybe he _would_ do all the things he'd said. Maybe he'd want _revenge_, and he'd get it from her, maybe over days, or weeks, or _years_.

She was trembling all over, shuddering and twisting away from where he let his hand rest on her neck. She was sobbing, and he knew with a twisting feeling in his gut, that he wouldn't forget this moment, wouldn't forget what he was doing right now, to get the information he needed.

He leaned in further so that his lips brushed her ear, causing her to flinch away as much as she could. But she couldn't get away, and knew it. Michael whispered, moving his lips against her ear.

"Pretty soon it'll be too late...then it'll just be you...and _me_." He went on, putting some tone into his voice, quietly sing-songing his words. "Well, pretty lay-dee? Is that what you want?" He took a deep breath, making a point of smelling her, then moved his body against hers suggestively.

She reacted violently.

Michael grabbed both of her wrists, as she briefly went wild underneath him, bucking up and down and flailing her limbs in complete panic, doing more harm to herself than to him. He yanked her up, then slammed her back down, causing her head to bounce slightly against the hard floor. She went still, the only movement left in the form of involuntary shuddering, and quiet, desperate sobs. Michael held his breath, feeling desperate himself, and waited for her to reply.

_Please, please, just _tell_ me..!_

She let out several heaving gasps, and her voice, when she found it, was one high pitched, frantic plea. "_I c-can't, please, I can't t-tell y-y-you, I c-can't!_" Her bravado was gone, replaced by raw panic. "Please..._please_...!"

Michael's heart twisted, as he kept his face hard.

If she would just _tell_ him, he would _apologize_, he would tell her that he would never, _never_ really rape her, that it was all an _act_...

Instead, Michael laughed quietly, letting the craziness, the excitement which had to pass for arousal but was really just pure _panic_, seep into his voice. He went back to the sing-songing tones again.

"Wroooong aaan-swerrr!" Then he forced his mouth onto hers, and was kissing her, holding both her wrists with one hand, as the other forced her chin down, forced her mouth open. He was rough, making the kiss an attack; violent and invasive. Then he pulled back a little, and his mouth was on her neck, his teeth leaving marks, while his other hand went to her chest, where he didn't caress or rub, but grabbed and squeezed, hard, making her scream out again.

He whispered in her ear, making his voice rough and low, full of feigned lust. "You can stop this...there's still _time_..." He paused for a count of three seconds, then his hand wandered lower, and he was pulling up her dress up, to expose her legs.

She screamed, and kept screaming, horror overtaking every other emotion for her at what was happening right now. Michael felt horrified too. He was going into shock, as he looked up and saw the clock showed a time only twenty-eight minutes out from the end of his world.

"Tell me, just TELL ME AND THIS ALL ENDS!" He grabbed her, roughly, through her thin panties, pushing up, hard, feeling far too much, feeling that she was in no way aroused, and she likely _was_ a virgin, as his hand dug into the most delicate area of a woman's body that there was. He stopped abruptly, as her entire body spasmed, her voice crying out roughly in anguish.

Breathing roughly himself, Michael reached for his own pants, and found the handle to his zipper. The sound, as he unzipped them, cut through everything, as if signaling her final chance, the _last_ chance to escape a fate worse than death.

But it was all an act; had been from the first moment, and now this was the _last_ moment. She would call his bluff, or she would cave in. Or..._or_, he would try to push it just a bit further, as far as he _could_, but the idea of keeping this up was sickening, and he knew, again, that there wasn't _any_ forgetting what was happening today, no going back from something like _this_...

Michael let his body press down against her own, her legs forced further apart to accommodate his larger frame. Their faces were level for now; moving higher against her would only call his bluff. He stayed still for a long moment, giving her another chance to respond, to make this all _stop_.

She found her voice. Her chest was heaving, and she was barely capable of coherent speech, but Michael heard her words; the same words she had spoken all along. She was begging with them now, begging with every ounce of herself.

"_I can't...I can't...I can't..._" She broke into sobs again, heart wrenching, pathetic sobs.

Michael was transported back, to a time in his childhood, a nightmare night, when he'd stood listening at the door to his parents' bedroom, as his mother had cried and cried...

And then it was over. Michael was pulling the young woman up, holding her to himself. He hugged her and gently rocked her back and forth, as he pulled her carefully into his lap. He sobbed along with her, resting his forehead on the top of her head, as he continued to rock them both.

This time, _his_ voice was broken, _his_ voice had no control as he begged her, one last time, as the clock ticked down.

"_Please, please...in the whole world, they're all I have. I can't lose them...I can't lose them..."_

Then the door to the loft slammed open, Michael looked up, through blurred vision...and there he saw a miracle.

Fiona and his mother came walking through, appearing unharmed. Following behind came Sam and Jesse; Sam's arm was around Jesse's rib cage. One of Jesse's legs was bloodied, and clearly couldn't support his weight. All of them looked tired and frayed around the edges...but not panicked. The danger was gone. They'd managed an escape on their own.

Michael, reeling on multiple levels, gently lifted his young victim up off his lap, resting her on the floor next to him, then he stood up. She continued to sob where he left her on the ground, bending over herself, in physical and emotional agony.

Sam Axe spoke, probably going for some of the humor he habitually employed.

"Mike, your fly's dow..." Sam dropped off, voice turning awkward. Michael didn't respond, knowing that everyone in the room was taking in the scene he and the woman on the ground made.

The noise of his zipper, as Michael pulled it back up again, had never sounded so dirty. The only other sound, to accompany it, was muffled sobbing. He stared straight ahead, unable to look at anyone. The passing seconds felt like years.

"_Michael_..."

It was Madeline, her voice quietly shocked. Michael finally bowed his head, tried to hold back the flood of shame and regret. He still had tears on his cheeks and in his eyes. He tried to find his voice.

Finally, as if he were wading through quicksand, Michael managed a strangled response.

"She was my only lead." His voice broke on the last word, and he swallowed. He went on, throat feeling like he'd gargled gravel. "I'm glad you're okay..." Michael gasped, a quick intake of air, as emotions he didn't know how to express threatened to overwhelm him. Intense relief, deep humiliation.

No one said anything. Michael turned his head to the side, catching, in his peripheral vision, the poor woman he'd beaten and violated. He swallowed, struggling to make words form.

"I'm..." Raw emotion broke his voice again, and Michael clenched his fists, forcing out the words he needed to say. "I'm _sorry_."

Hanging his head again, he pushed forward, past Sam and Jesse, the latter reaching out half heartedly, only to let his hand drop. Then Michael was out the door.

The outraged scream of Madeline Westen calling his name as only she could followed him, as he broke into a run on the stairs.

"_Michael!_"

* * *

A few months later, after Anson had been killed, Michael's mystery victim got back in touch through Fiona. Fi had done a lot for the young woman, helping her through the physical and emotional trauma he'd inflicted on her.

She- her name was Sarah, as it turned out- confirmed that Anson had been holding her _own_ mother hostage. Ultimately, she didn't blame Michael for what he'd done; even asked Fiona to make sure Michael understood that. The others, even Michael's mother, forgave him as well, although Fiona hadn't let him so much as give her a hug for nearly two months afterward. That was likely the time, he knew, that it had taken for Sarah to stop walking with a limp.

But it didn't change the fact that Anson had succeeded in manipulating Michael, one last time, into crossing that line in the sand. And to be honest, Michael could never quite forgive _himself_.

* * *

Author's Note: Reviews are deeply appreciated. Thanks for reading! If you feel the T rating is too light, and M is more appropriate, I would also appreciate that feedback. Thanks!


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